<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>He Was The Sunset by mr_marigold</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033625">He Was The Sunset</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_marigold/pseuds/mr_marigold'>mr_marigold</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dreamwastaken, GeorgeNotFound - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Bully, Fluff, Gen, except for finding dori apparently, i hope you like it if anyone reads this, it made my friend cry and they never cry at anything, self hatred yee yee</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:33:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,635</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29033625</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mr_marigold/pseuds/mr_marigold</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Clay meets George on a snowy night and the rest is history.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>He Was The Sunset</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hiii. this is my first ever thing so i hope its good and at least someone finds it. also hi kyla! you’re probably the only one reading this.:)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was becoming too stuffy inside the crowded house, and he was becoming overwhelmed with the roar of the fire and loud chatter. Clay couldn’t follow any of the conversations, his heart quickening each time someone mentioned him. His hands shook under the table and he kept his eyes directed out the window, watching the snow cover his backyard. Christmas Eve was meant to be fun, exciting. But all Clay felt was a twisting feeling in his stomach and the stares of everyone at the table looking straight through him, uncovering all of his insecurities and making fun of his thoughts. He knew no one was actually judging him, but he also knew that he couldn’t last another second sitting with everyone, these people who he called family even though he never really spoke to them and knew nothing about them yet they seemed to go together seamlessly. He was a loose thread, one that they needed to cut off. </p><p>He quietly got up from the table, going unnoticed due to everyone being too caught up in their dramatic retellings of stories they had told plenty of times already that night, each time becoming more and more theatrical. He made his way around the hall and to the front door, grabbing his coat from the coat rack and putting it on along with the gloves that were shoved into its pocket. The door gently shut behind him as he stepped out onto the front porch and let the cold air cool down his warm skin, hot with fresh jolts of anxiety and the sweltering heat of the fireplace. Blowing out a shaky breath, he watched the condensation float up into the night sky and wished that he could float up with it, sit amongst the large clouds pouring down snow. Or maybe he wished he was the snow itself, to fall weightlessly down to the ground and settle with the rest of the white blankets covering the dead grass. </p><p>Carefully, he walked down his icy driveway and down to the sidewalk. A nice walk was all he needed to calm down, right? Just a break from the fake happiness and the imitations of everything being okay. In reality, winter made everything more difficult. The days were cut short and the nights dragged on. When he woke up for school, the sun was still asleep, the only thing in the sky to greet him being darkness. Breathing was harder now, he found that exhaling and inhaling deeply was next to impossible. And his thoughts were all over the place, worse than the rest of the seasons. All he could do was blindly hold on as his mind ran around in circles, all the random voices in his head talking his ear off every day and night. </p><p>The cold really did seem to freeze his thoughts a bit as he walked around his neighborhood and he allowed himself to smile at the Christmas lights hanging in suburban houses' windows, a sliver of Christmas spirit working its way inside of his chest. But it was gone before he could hold onto it, it seemed to melt between his palms just like the snowflakes he tried to catch as a child did. The only thing that could truly stop him in his tracks, shake all of his thoughts from his head and send them scattering onto the frosted pavement, was the figure of a boy standing in the middle of the street, his head tilted up toward the sky.</p><p>He looked ethereal under the street lights, his cheeks red from the cold and his smile brighter than the snow in his dark hair. Clay wasn’t sure if he was even real, or if he was some kind of trick of the light, trick of the light that danced over his delicate features, making him glow. Clay watched as he held out his hand for snowflakes to fall into, and then leaning over as one landed in his palm, smiling even wider at the intricate design it displayed. Clay imagined that the boy's eyes had just as intricate of a design in them as the snowflakes did. He felt colder looking at him, for he wasn’t even wearing a coat but just a light jacket. Yet he didn’t seem cold, he seemed to be on fire, warmth radiating off of him and reaching all the way to Clay. </p><p>A snowflake landed on Clay’s nose, making him jump and rub it away with his gloved fingers. He tried to hold it in, but he couldn’t help the loud sneeze that echoed in the street, catching the boy across the street's attention. </p><p>The boy laughed, a soft sound. “Bless you!” he called.</p><p>“Thank you,” Clay replied, making his way across the street since his cover had been blown.</p><p>“It’s pretty out tonight, isn’t it?”</p><p>Clay nodded his head in agreement. “Aren’t you cold, though?”</p><p>He shrugged. “I don’t like coats. They’re restricting. It’s a valid sacrifice.”</p><p>“But you could catch a cold.”</p><p>“It’s worth the risk. Plus, I have hot chocolate waiting for me inside.” He gestured to the blue house right in front of them.</p><p>Clay sighed. “That sounds nice.”</p><p>The boy nodded. “What brings you out into the cold on Christmas eve?” he asked.</p><p>“Too many people inside a too small room.”</p><p>He laughed. “Most of my family lives in England, so I don’t have to worry about that.” That explained the accent.</p><p>“Lucky you.”</p><p>He nodded. “It’s just me and my mom out here.”</p><p>Clay was surprised by this stranger’s eagerness to share his personal information, and even more surprised by how comfortable he felt with doing the same. “Same. But tonight all the rest of my family is here. It’s a lot.”</p><p>An expression of understanding passed over the boy's face. “If you’re not ready to go back to the crowd I’m sure my mom wouldn’t mind making an extra cup of hot chocolate.”</p><p>“You sure? We don’t even know each other's names.”</p><p>The boy jumped down from the sidewalks ledge and onto the road, walking closer to Clay. He held out his hand. “George.”</p><p>Clay took it and shook George’s hand. “Clay.”</p><p>They smiled at each other and then made their way inside George’s house. Clay felt warm inside, not because of the fire going or the hot beverage dripping down his throat, but because of the way George and his mom made him feel. Home was the only way to describe it, and he thought that he quite liked the feeling of home. He quite liked it a lot.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Blue was the color of his house. It was the color of the ocean. It was the color of the sky. It was his color. The one he could see the best, the one he gravitated towards. It was the color he wished he could paint his walls with, paint himself in. If he was a color he would be blue. George wore blue all the time, he liked the way it showed up in the mirror when he looked at himself, popping out of the desaturated walls and floors. He liked it even more when other people wore blue, standing out in the crowd of grocery shoppers and the sea of students in the hallways. But the person who pulled off blue the best was Clay. It hugged him the way George wanted to, gentle and warm. </p><p>They sat in the grass of the school’s football field, finally becoming green in the warmer weather, but it meant nothing to George. He didn’t care about the green grass that looked the same as it always did. He cared about the blue shirt Clay had on, he cared about the sunlight on his skin. He cared about the way Clay tied strands of grass together absentmindedly while talking about spring break. It made George smile, the things Clay did without thinking. He liked it when Clay laughed without the worry of other people’s eyes, he liked the things Clay said when it was just him and George and he didn’t care about being judged. Those were the things that made George like Clay, the way he saw life differently than anyone else, and the way he expressed himself. </p><p>“I wonder what an alternative universe Clay would do for his spring break,” he said. “And what an alternative universe George would do.”</p><p>“I’d probably just do the same thing in every alternative universe. I’m not very interesting,” George said. </p><p>Clay dropped the grass he was playing with onto the ground. “That’s definitely not true. If there are multiple George’s, you’re the most interesting of all of them. Without a doubt.”</p><p>“Without a doubt?”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>They fell into comfortable silence, their shoulders grazing each other in the half inch that separated them. </p><p>“I like to think that in any universe, we would find each other,” George said breaking the silence. He was certain that he had just said the dumbest thing possible. Regret rose up in his chest as he waited for Clay’s response.</p><p>Clay looked over at him and smiled. “I like to think that, too.”</p><p>George breathed in with relief, the smell of flowers mingled with Clay’s shampoo filling his senses.<br/>
________________________________________</p><p>When it rained, the pine trees in front of his house sparkled in the sunlight. It reminded George of the way the boy who lived inside the houses’ eyes sparkled, filled with laughter or passion of whatever he was talking about. Sometimes Clay would get a burst of energy that came out in various ways that would get him in trouble at school and home. He would ramble on and on about something that no one else had a clue about, he’d make random loud noises, and sometimes George would watch as he tried and failed to stay still in his seat. George made sure to be patient with him, whispering reassuring words in class and walking with him down the halls when he needed a break. Clay seemed to be more than grateful for George, saying thank you so often that it sometimes lost its meaning.</p><p>George hated the way Clay would curl in on himself, keeping everything hidden inside. At the same time, George liked to give him privacy and space when he needed it. But he couldn’t help but wonder how the negative things he said about himself got there in the first place. Where had they come from? Who had put them there? Who implanted those false thoughts into his head and made it impossible for him to look past them? It made George ache with sadness and anger at the same time, a feeling he felt down to his core. Sometimes he’d get so close to reaching that part of Clay, uncovering that bit of secrecy, but something would always happen. George would say something wrong or someone would walk by and he would watch with regret as Clay retreated once again.</p><p>“Before you came around, I didn’t really do so well in school,” he would say.</p><p>“What do you mean?” George would ask.</p><p>“I didn’t get along with anyone very well. You’re probably the first person to look at me like I’m…,” but he would trail off as another classmate would sit down at their lunch table, changing the subject to something more lighthearted and George would helplessly follow. </p><p>In April, they spent Easter together. They hid eggs around a park and watched as the little kids ran around looking for them, Clay’s sister included.</p><p>“What’s your favorite candy?” George asked with a mouth full of chocolate.</p><p>Clay looked up at the sky and studied the clouds, giving the question a lot of thought. “Probably skittles. What about you?”</p><p>George directed his gaze in the same direction, focusing on one particular cloud that looked like a butterfly. “Anything chocolate.”</p><p>Clay opened one of his Easter eggs and took out a hershey’s bar. “For you,” he said, offering it to George.</p><p>“Thank you!”</p><p>“Mhm.” </p><p>George closed his eyes against the warm sunlight and let it warm his skin. He smiled despite himself, the presence of his best friend beside him washing a cool sense of calm over him. The taste of chocolate lingered in his mouth and he wanted to laugh at the squeals of little kids fighting over candy.</p><p>“I’m glad you moved here,” Clay said so quietly that George had to open his eyes and look over at him to be sure that he said anything.</p><p>“Me too,” George responded.</p><p>“If you hadn’t, I’d probably still be the way I was in middle school.”</p><p>George sat up, the change of tone in the conversation making him anxious. “What were you like in middle school?”</p><p>Clay let out a faint laugh. “Nothing like I am now. And nothing that I’m proud of. I got in a lot of trouble.”</p><p>George shrugged. “Everyone goes through a rebellious phase.”</p><p>“No, it was more than that,” as he talked his leg started to bounce up and down, “I don’t know why I would do the things I did. It was like I had no other way to express what was happening to me and how I felt about it.”</p><p>“What was happening to you?”</p><p>Clay looked at George, his hands shaking and his eyes tinged with a type of sadness George had read in poems but had never actually seen. George took Clay's hands in his own in an attempt to steady them, to slow the pounding of Clay’s heart. He prayed it worked.</p><p>And then George watched as finally, Clay shared that last secret with him, that final thing that George knew was there but felt was too far to reach. He watched as all of Clay’s loose threads unraveled, as all of his thoughts finally spilled over, but this time instead of letting them fall down and break like glass on the floor, George was there to catch them. And he caught every last one, holding them delicately in his hands, afraid of shattering the fragile thing that was Clay’s head, afraid of shattering this moment. He didn’t care if the sharp edges of these memories cut his fingers, because he knew that it was nothing compared to the marks left on Clay. And he knew that with gentle touches and soft hugs, those marks would heal, and Clay wouldn’t have to feel that pain anymore. He knew that if he acted as the air inside lungs, as the blood inside veins, Clay could finally come home. And George would be there when he was ready, opening the door for him and beckoning him inside. He just had to wait until then. And for Clay, of course he would wait.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>At first, they seemed friendly, exchanging compliments and laughter with him, bright smiles filling up the empty space. But then their whole demeanor would change and slowly, they would begin to pick him apart. His hair, his clothes, his teeth, and finally his brain. They’d build him up out of wood only to set him on fire and watch him burn back down to ash. Grins would turn to tears and instead of being red from happiness he would become red with embarrassment at himself. It was a cycle that he fell into time and time again, eager to believe that these kids had changed, changed their mind about him and actually wanted to be his friends. </p><p>He was let down each time.</p><p>Looking back on it now, he only felt anger at himself for being so naive, so gullible, to truly believe that anyone wanted to be his friend. He learned to only have base level conversations with people, keeping them far enough away that they wouldn’t be able to see past his mask of “everything is okay.” The only person who he had ever had a real conversation with since then was George, and that was only because George refused to have anything except for conversations that meant something, and because Clay was too enthralled by him to not hand that over. But he still kept George away from those dark places in his mind, not wanting him to get burned by them too. He knew that if he let George see every part of him, he would run away. He’d see how bad of a person Clay truly was and how little he actually deserved and would go find someone better, someone who was as pure as George himself. It confused him to no end, this boy who still hadn’t given up on him. This boy who listened, who saw things the way he did. Was he even real? He really couldn’t be sure.</p><p>When his thoughts finally spilled over on Easter, he found that he couldn’t stop them from overflowing no matter how hard he tried. The weight of holding it all in for such a long time became too much and he couldn’t bite back his words. He wished he could cut off his tongue then, he wished he didn’t have vocal cords. But when he looked to George, he saw all the reasons as to why he had a voice. To share these honest thoughts with him was the reason, to make George laugh was the reason, to sing his heart out in the backseat of the car with him was the reason. George apologized for something he didn’t do and Clay forgave him, because it was the only way he could get himself to forgive the people who had actually engraved the 100 reasons he hated himself into his head. </p><p>The weather got warmer, and so did Clay and George’s friendship, becoming even more authentic somehow, and being filled with flowers in their hair and laughter that made Clay wheeze and George hold his stomach. Days spent in each other’s company was how the 100 reasons slowly began to get erased. Clay pushed down on the eraser with all of his strength because he knew that for George, to see 100 turn to 0 would be his biggest accomplishment yet. And to see George smile would be Clay’s greatest accomplishment yet. So while watching a movie about beautiful girls and sad men with George’s feet in his lap, Clay allowed himself to speak without cringing at every word he said. </p><p>“You’re like those manic pixie dream girls in movies,” he said.</p><p>“How so?” George asked, half asleep. His head was propped against a pillow and his eyes were barely staying open.</p><p>“They come and help the main character feel better and then disappear.”</p><p>“You think I’m going to disappear?”</p><p>“I barely even believe you’re real.”</p><p>“Well, I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”</p><p>And Clay believed him, because George didn’t lie, and when he did it was painfully obvious. He smiled at George from the other end of the couch, feeling butterflies swarm up inside him as his eyes danced across George’s face. His hair, his eyelashes, his nose, his lips. Clay wanted to grab every butterfly inside him and smush it in his hands. </p><p>“Did you sleep last night?” he asked.</p><p>“No. I don’t sleep at night, only during the day,” George said.</p><p>“Why’s that? Are you a cat?”</p><p>“Maybe. I wouldn’t mind being a cat though. Nine lives and all.”</p><p>“What would you do with nine lives?”</p><p>He opened his eyes and glanced at Clay. “I’d spend every last one of them with you.”</p><p>None of this made sense. Why would he choose to spend his life with Clay when he had the chance to do so many other things? He didn’t deserve this. He tried to focus his attention back on the movie but found it difficult, becoming aware of the feet in his lap and the person laying next to him. It felt wrong and he hated that it felt wrong. He wanted desperately for it to feel right, to be one and the same as George. Clay couldn’t call himself a good person while sitting next to George. He wasn’t worthy of this type of attention, this attention that he chased after for years but now that he had finally gotten it, he wanted to reject it. He wanted to yell at George and make him go away, he wanted to say so many stupid things to him just so he wouldn’t be near him anymore, he didn’t want George to make him feel loved and cared for. Looking back over at George’s sleeping body, his eyes fluttering from the dreams behind his eyelids, he knew he could never be mean to George even if he wanted to. He could never shout ugly words at him and watch as his heart broke, the evidence of it written all over his face. </p><p>Because if he did that, Clay’s heart would break too, and he had just figured out how to put it back together again. So he never yelled, never fought. He just allowed the kind words that flooded from George’s mouth flow over him even though he knew he didn’t deserve it. </p><p>He tickled George’s feet to wake him up for dinner and laughed when he got a kick in the shoulder in response. This was the summer he had dreamed of but never thought he’d actually get. What a funny thing life is.<br/>
________________________________________</p><p>Clay’s thoughts ran faster than he could keep up with, caught up with the breeze running its hands through his hair and the clouds that changed shape every second. It made it hard to focus on what others wanted him to focus on, made it hard for him to keep track of what other people’s thoughts were because he could barely keep track of his own. There was no real way for him to express this, moving clumsily over conversations and spacing out constantly, yet somehow George was able to understand everything he said. Even when he spoke without realizing that no one else knew the train of thoughts he was following in his head, George had no problem hopping aboard and joining him, keeping him on the railroad tracks with such efficiency that Clay wasn’t sure if he was even human. </p><p>That got him thinking, was he ever something other than human before? Maybe if reincarnation was real? He hoped that he was a better person in his past life, but the fact that he was still on earth proved otherwise. In this life though, he promised to be good, he promised to try and help other people. And he realized that the only way to do that was to help himself first, and let other people help him. While driving, his eyes glanced over to George in the passenger seat to their own accord, the person who he wanted to help and the person who had helped him the most. He had to have known George before now, how else did they click so easily? Clay traced the outline of George’s face which was turned away from him looking out the window, his hair blowing in the breeze coming in through the rolled down windows and the sun making his skin look golden. It was all so familiar to him that he felt like he could paint George with his eyes closed.</p><p>“Do you think we knew each other in our past lives?” Clay asked.</p><p>“Oh, definitely,” George said without missing a beat, “We met online and became best friends.”</p><p>“No, no. I was in a war and you would write me letters everyday and I would write you them back. Maybe you’d even send me pressed flowers.”</p><p>“Sounds like something I’d do.”</p><p>“It does.”</p><p>“...Did you die in the war?”</p><p>“Maybe. But if I did, I did it for you.”</p><p>A swell of confidence rose up in Clay’s chest from the look of fondness he saw in George’s eyes. He was going to be okay. He was going to be okay because he was learning how to be, and George would stick by him for the long, ongoing ride. This much he was completely sure of.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Without him, I don’t know what I’d do, George thought one sleepless night. I’d probably just stay in my room all day and pretend the world didn’t exist. Because the world couldn’t exist without Clay.</p><p>He was the stars in the sky at night that George studied. He was the light that danced through the windows, casting shadows that leapt up the walls. He was ink on paper writing pretty words that fell eloquently out of mouths. He was the tender touch of skin, gentle and kind. He was the air that filled lungs and the water that rushed down rivers, never appreciated enough by those around him. He was everything.</p><p>Why couldn’t he see that he was everything?</p><p>He was what kept the earth spinning and the sun shining. He was the trees with the wind blowing through them, making them sway to the melodies he hummed under his breath when he thought no one was listening. He was what turned frowns into smiles and cries into laughter. The world couldn’t exist without him because he was the world. </p><p>Why couldn’t he see that he was the world?</p><p>He was everything that made life worth living yet he thought he was nothing but a speck of dirt. </p><p>He second guessed himself, he overthought everything, he was too hard on himself but acted like it was completely deserved. </p><p>It wasn’t.</p><p>George knew it wasn’t.</p><p>But as the leaves in the trees changed color, something about Clay changed color too. He smiled more often. He laughed more often. He talked more often and George loved it because the sound of his voice was like rain pattering on concrete. George couldn’t get enough of it. Clay wrote his name at the top of notebook pages and grinned at it instead of glaring at it. Clay hugged people more often, hugged George more often. He danced in the cold breeze of autumn and climbed on top of his roof to watch the sunset. He felt like he was on top of the world up there, and George could tell by the look on his face. </p><p>“I love the sunset,” he said, “because all the colors mesh together and light up the clouds. It’s like the sun is saying goodnight to us, but before he heads off to bed he wants to put on a show that way we don’t forget that he’ll be back in the morning.” </p><p>And although George couldn’t see the enchanting thing that Clay described, he knew that if he could it would remind him of Clay. </p><p>“I think if we didn’t have a sunset,” Clay continued, “we’d get scared of the dark. We would just be thrown into the night without a chance to catch our breath, nothing but the moon and the stars to greet us. We need the sunset, because without it we would be lost. We need it because without it we would be too afraid.”</p><p>Clay rambled on and on about the sunset not realizing that he was talking about himself.</p><p>He was the sunset.</p><p>He needed to know that he was the sunset.</p><p>“You know why I love the sunset?” George asked.</p><p>“Why?” Clay responded.</p><p>“Because I don’t know what I’d do without it. Like you said, we need it. I need it.”</p><p>Clay stared at him, slowly starting to understand what George was getting at.</p><p>“I don’t know what I’d do without you. You know that?”</p><p>Clay’s eyes watered and he looked down at his hands. </p><p>“You are the sunset,” George whispered.</p><p>Clay wrapped George into a hug and refused to let go. </p><p>He would never let go, never disappear, as long as the sunset still showed in the sky because he was the sunset.</p><p>He was the sunset.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>